Matters of Honor
by Allard-Liao
Summary: Desiring to fulfil the deathbed request of his father, a lone Khajiit warrior makes his way to the cold Nord homeland of Skyrim. What he finds there is leagues beyond his expectations.
1. Chapter 1

The jostling of the carriage as it bumped over the cobblestone road brought the tiger-patterned Khajiit out of the realm of blissful unconsciousness back to the harsh, cold reality that was Skyrim. He groaned and shook his head to clear out the cobwebs when a Nord voice caught his attention.

"Hey, you. You're finally awake. You were trying to cross the border, right? Walked right into that Imperial ambush, same as us." The speaker was blond and wore a cuirass of leather and bronze scales covered on the back and over the shoulders with blue cloth; a sheet of chain mail ran about halfway down his upper arms. He bore a rather toned build; not as much as the Khajiit, but still toned.

"Actually, I'd been tracking that band of Imperials for days," the cat-man replied as he pushed his back against the side of the wagon to pop the stiffened vertebra. He then realized that a familiar weight was not against his side. He looked and shouted in shock, "My sword!"

"Aye, we all had our swords taken away when they captured us."

"You don't understand. That sword was in my family for nearly eleven generations, and it carried my ancestor through the Oblivion Crisis."

"Your family was involved in the Crisis?" a new voice intruded. This Nord was different. Unlike the warrior in front of the Khajiit, his muscle tone was below average. And the way he carried himself…he wasn't any kind of warrior; he seemed more of a thief or a ne'er-do-well rogue.

"Yes, thief. In Cyrodiil. My eight-times-great-grandfather was the Champion of Cyrodiil." That was when he noticed the fourth man in the cart. He was gagged, and yet his clothing was of the highest quality. None of the clothiers in Elsweyr could compete. Turning back to the warrior, the Khajiit asked, "Who is he?"

"He is Ulfric Stormcloak, the true High King of Skyrim," the blond replied with pride in his voice.

"Ulfric? The Jarl of Windhelm? You're the leader of the rebellion. But, if they've captured you…oh Gods, where are they taking us?" the thief whined.

"I don't know where we're going, but Sovngarde awaits," the warrior said solemnly.

The cat nodded with equal solemnity. Despite being a native of Elsweyr, he knew many of the Nord traditions, including their afterlife, Sovngarde. As none of the prisoners had anything to talk about for a few minutes, he decided to look up and down the wagon train. There was nothing interesting until he focused on the head of the column. There was an older Imperial wearing the armor of a Legion General. Flanking him was a Thalmor. Unbidden, a growl rose in his throat.

It was then, as an Imperial gatehouse and a village beyond it came into view, that conversation resumed in the cart. "Hey, what village are you from, horse-thief?"

"What do you care?"

"A Nord's last thoughts should be of home."

"Rorikstead. I'm – I'm from Rorikstead."

"And what about you, Khajiit?"

The cat-man pondered for a bit. He had been to so many places that he didn't really have a home, anymore. Finally, he answered slowly, "I was born in Rimmen, but the last place I called home was Anvil. I'd inherited Benirus Manor there. I ended up selling it to pay for my passage to the border."

The convoy neared a fort at that moment, and a cry from atop the gatehouse caught the prisoners' attention. "General Tullius, sir, the Headsman is waiting."

"Good, let's get this over with," the General he'd spotted earlier replied agitatedly before he peeled off from the main column.

"Look at him. General Tullius, the Military Governor. And the Thalmor are with him. Damn Elves; I bet they had something to do with this," the Stormcloak stated with a sneer.

"I agree."

But the blond warrior was already miles and years away. "This is Helgen. I used to be sweet on a girl from here. I wonder if Vilod is still making that mead with juniper berries mixed in." He then emitted a mirthless chuckle. "Funny. When I was a boy, Imperial walls and towers used to make me feel so safe."

Except for the thief's muttered prayers, they lapsed into silence again. Then the Khajiit's sharp hearing caught the questions of a boy, whom he then turned his head to look at. "Who are they, daddy? Where are they going?"

His father didn't answer the questions. Instead, he encouraged, "You need to go inside, little cub."

"Why? I want to watch the soldiers."

The encouragement became an order. "Inside the house. Now."

Grudgingly, the boy got up and walked into his family's house. "Yes, Papa." _Good. Spare him these horrors. He is too young to experience them,_ the cat-man thought as he nodded at the father.

As the carriage slowed to a halt near Helgen's North Gate, so did the thief's prayers. "Why are we stopping?" he asked, although the frantic tone in his voice betrayed the fact that he, and everyone else, knew the answer to that question.

Still, the Stormcloak provided the answer. "Why do you think? End of the line." A few seconds later, the steps mounted on the back of the wagon dropped. Looking directly at the Khajiit, the blond added, "Let's go. Shouldn't keep the gods waiting for us." The cat simply nodded and began to stand up, his digitigrade legs stiff from sitting for so long.

"No! Wait! We're not rebels!" the thief pleaded as the Stormcloak soldier shoved him to his feet.

"Face your death with some _courage_, thief."

He still refused to accept his fate. "No, you've got to tell them. We weren't with you! This is a mistake."

However, the Khajiit had ceased paying attention to the thief and had, instead, focused on a new figure that had stepped in front of the group of prisoners. She was an Imperial Legion officer, as displayed by her somewhat ornate steel armor, but it was what was on her hip that caught his attention the most. Mounted there was an ornate, and ancient, ebony longsword, and he knew that, were its blade showing, one would see rivulets of magical fire flowing throughout it. That was the sword his ancestor had used for many years before passing it down through the generations. It was the blade he had just lost. And he seethed at the fact that she was wearing it so proudly.

"Step toward the block when we call your name. One at a time," she barked.

"Empire loves their damned lists."

The man who had been riding at the rear of the column was the one holding the list and calling out the names for their cart. "Ulfric Stormcloak, Jarl of Windhelm."

As he stepped away, the Stormcloak soldier stated, "It has been an honor, Jarl Ulfric."

"Ralof of Riverwood." The blond soldier stepped away. "Lokir of Rorikstead."

The thief made one last impassioned plea, and then bolted when he realized that the Imperials were not going to listen. "You're not going to kill me!" he shouted…an instant before an arrow impaled the base of his skull. He was dead before he even hit the ground.

"Anyone else feel like running?" the female Officer asked rhetorically.

The younger soldier then took in the Khajiit's presence for the first time. "Wait, you, step forward." Once the cat did, he continued, "Who are you?"

"I am Lejule, seventy-third of the Wulfson line. Born in Rimmen, but a native of all of Tamriel."

"You with one of the trade caravans, Khajiit? Your kind always seems to find trouble," the Nord Legionnaire muttered as he jotted down the relevant information in his book. He then turned to the officer and asked, "Captain, what should we do? He's not on the list."

"Forget the list, he goes to the block."

The soldier hesitated before replying, "By your orders, Captain." He turned back to Lejule. "I'm sorry. We'll make sure your remains are returned to Elsweyr." He truly sounded remorseful. "Follow the Captain, prisoner."

"Well, I'll put in a good word for you with the gods," the Khajiit warrior replied as he stepped toward the crowd of Stormcloak prisoners.

When he arrived, General Tullius was standing in front of Ulfric, a hand on the hilt of his Imperial blade. "Ulfric Stormcloak. Some here in Helgen call you a hero, but a hero does not use a power like the Voice to murder his king and usurp his throne." The gagged leader gave a muffled growl in reply, and Tullius' tone rose from matter-of-fact to angry, yet triumphant. "You started this war, plunged Skyrim into chaos. And now the Empire is going to put you down, and restore the peace."

It appeared that he would have continued, but a roar of a kind unknown to Lejule, and apparently everyone present, pealed through the valley. "What was that?" the list-bearer asked, uncertainty in his voice.

"It's nothing. Carry on."

"Yes, General Tullius," the Captain replied with a salute.

_Brown-noser_, Lejule thought.

"Give them their last rites," she ordered a priestess.

"As we commend your souls to Atherius, blessings of the Eight Divines upon ye–"

"Oh, for the love of Talos, shut up and let's get this over with," a flame-haired Stormcloak interrupted as he stepped up to the executioner's block.

"As you wish," the priestess conceded.

Kneeling before the block, the redhead urged, "Come on, I haven't got all morning!" As the Captain planted her armored boot between his shoulder blades and forced him to lay his cheek on the block, he continued, "My ancestors are smiling at me, Imperials. Can you say the same?" Then the headsman's axe came down and the soldier's head fell into the basket set at the base of the block.

There was a general clamor from both sides about the morality of the executions, including Ralof stating solemnly, "As fearless in death as he was in life."

Then the Captain's voice rose above it all. "Next, the Cat!"

Lejule took a half-step forward, but then he froze as the roar reverberated again, closer this time. "There it is again."

The Captain, however, masked her fear of it with impatience. "I said. Next. Prisoner!"

The list-man cringed before requesting, "To the block, prisoner, nice and easy."

The Khajiit stepped forward proudly, having accepted death, embracing it, even. However, he refused to kneel until the Captain kicked the back of his knees and pushed him down. He still resisted as her heavy boot pressed between his shoulders until she added her fist and shoved his cheek onto the block. Unlike the Nord, he gave no last defiant words, as he decided to deny the Imperials the satisfaction. However, as the headsman raised his axe, a black, and strangely familiar, shape flew out from behind the Throat of the World.

General Tullius gave voice to Lejule's thought. "What in Oblivion is that?!"

"Sentries, what do you see?" the Captain demanded

Before anyone could answer, the creature landed on top of the tower the Khajiit, and almost everyone else, was looking at, the impact knocking the headsman off balance.

"Dragon!" some female shouted.

The executioner recovered, turned around, and was knocked off balance again when a loud thunderclap-like noise issued from the dragon's mouth. Instantly, the sky turned an angry shade of red and flaming rocks began raining down. One of them buried the unfortunate headsman and knocked Lejule down off the block.

It took him a few moments to re-gather his wits, but, when he did, Ralof was standing before him, wrists unbound, shouting, "Come on! The gods won't give us another chance." Then he began running for another tower, the cat following. Once the black-striped, orange felinoid dove through the door, the Stormcloak bolted it shut. The Khajiit picked himself up and looked back toward Ralof, who, in turn, was looking toward Ulfric, whose gag had come off at some point. "Jarl Ulfric, what is that thing? Could the legends be true?"

"Legends don't burn down villages," the Stormcloak leader answered in a surprisingly calm voice. An explosion rocked the tower and he continued, "We have to get out of here, now!"

"Right. Up the stairs!" Ralof shouted back, but the cat was several steps ahead of him – literally.

He didn't look back to see if anyone was following his example, but a sound from outside made him stop just short of the next landing, where another pair of Stormcloak soldiers were milling about. That sound proved to be the dragon, as its head smashed through the wall. The flying stones crushed one soldier while its flame breath turned the other into a smoking cinder. Surprisingly, as the dragon breathed its flame, the Khajiit's sensitive ears could pick out either two or three words (the second and third syllable were strung too closely together to be sure): "Yol," and either "Torshul" or "Tor" and "Shul."

A moment later, the dragon left to terrorize another part of Helgen, and Ralof crept over to the opening. "There! The inn. Jump!"

As before, Lejule was already ahead of his thoughts, sailing through and throwing his arms forward to give him a little more momentum. He landed with his right foot first, then his left a little in front of it, and then followed though by rolling shoulder first. He felt the fur of his tail singe against the burning thatch of the building's roof. Putting that out of his mind, he saw where the inn's stairway had collapsed, a large hole leading directly to the open doorway.

He dashed through and almost immediately came upon a pair of Imperial soldiers, one of whom was the list-bearer, and the young boy from earlier. The boy's parents were nowhere to be seen. The list-man was directing the boy, named Haming, to get to cover. Then he noticed the Khajiit. "Still alive, prisoner? Stay close to me if you wish to stay that way!" Nodding, the cat began to follow the Legionnaire. Before leaving, the Nord Legionnaire gave one last order to a soldier in iron plate armor. "Gonnar, stay with Haming. I need to find Tullius and join the defense."

As the pair left, Gonnar replied, "Gods guide you, Hadvar."

Hadvar and Lejule crossed the street and into an alley. "Stay close to the wall!"

As they did, the dragon landed on top of the wall, its wing touching the ground so close in front of Lejule that he held his breath for fear that it would feel the slight breeze on its skin, and blasted a group of Imperial soldiers. When it flew away again, the pair resumed their escape, weaving between flustered archers and battlemages who were pointing out frantically that their attacks were having no effect on the dragon.

When they reached the keep, they spotted a familiar face. "Ralof, you damned traitor! Out of my way!"

"We're escaping, Hadvar, and you're not stopping us this time!"

"Fine. I hope that dragon takes you all to Sovngarde!"

With that each soldier darted for one of the two entrances to the keep. After half a second's hesitation to apologize to Hadvar, Lejule followed Ralof, as neither was a friend of the Empire. Once inside, Ralof knelt by the corpse of a slain Stormcloak soldier and promised, "We'll meet again in Sovngarde, brother." He turned back to the cat-man and continued, "Looks like we're the only ones who made it." The Khajiit simply bowed his head in solemn acknowledgement. "Here. Let's see if we can get those bindings off," the Stormcloak added as he pulled a small dagger from his boot.

A quick cut and the ropes fell away. The cat rubbed his wrists and noted that there was a noticeable ring in the fur where the bindings had rubbed away about half the hairs. "Thank you."

"Don't mention it." He gestured to a slain Stormcloak and continued, "Take Gunjar's gear. He has no more use of it."

Uttering a small prayer, Lejule pulled off the dead soldier's armor, consisting of a leather-scale cuirass and a set of thick fur boots (the latter of which didn't fit his Khajiit leg structure), and his weapon, an iron war axe. The axe was old, chipped, and not as well balanced as a sword, and he would have preferred to wear some heavy plate armor, but those would have to do.

"Damn. It's locked," Ralof muttered as he tried a door. "Let's check that one." Before they could, they both heard voices coming down the corridor behind it. One of them made the Khajiit's blood boil; it belonged to the Captain. As the voices approached, the two enemies of the Empire crouched down on either side of the door.

"Hurry up and get this door open!" There was the sound of keys jangling followed by one of them sliding into the lock. Lejule tightened his grip on the axe's handle and commenced a short breath meditation to prepare himself for the coming combat.

The bar door opened and two Imperial soldiers came in. In the second or so of their shock, Lejule appraised his opponents. One was the Captain, as his ears had told him already, while the other was a raw recruit. Ralof set upon the recruit, leaving the Captain for the Khajiit to deal with. "Ready for a rematch, 'Captain?'"

"You're so eager to die? Just after cheating it once today? It'll be my pleasure," she stated as she drew the ancient blade.

The two combatants started circling each other, while Ralof finished off his opponent. When the Nord turned to attack the Captain, Lejule stated, "No. This is my fight."

"Aw, that would have almost made it even," the Imperial taunted. Then she lunged with the ebony blade.

Almost without effort, the cat spun out of the way and brought his axe around to try and behead the Captain.

She blocked the blow with her shield and attempted to carve into the Khajiit's side with the sword.

He ducked under the swing, grabbed her wrist, and brought the iron blade crashing down onto her elbow. While the armor held and prevented her from losing her arm, there was a satisfying crunch as the bone underneath gave way.

With her arm disabled, the old blade fell out of her grasp and clattered on the ground. The cat-man kicked her in the chest to disorient her further while he reclaimed his family heirloom. Wasting neither time nor words, he knocked away her helmet with the axe and beheaded her with the sword. Flames leapt from both sides of the wound as her body slumped to the ground.

Dropping the axe, Lejule caressed the black metal of his old family sword. "The Claw of Akatosh. Forged over two centuries ago and enchanted by the Champion of Cyrodiil himself after becoming Arch-Mage of the Mages Guild using the soul of a slain Dremora."

He then proceeded to strip the Captain's equipment, using the axe to pound flat, and then the ebony blade to shave smooth, the "female modifications" to the armor's chest. With a little additional pounding, the chest plate fit adequately to his larger frame.

Again, the boots didn't fit, but he sliced off the shin plates to provide some protection for his legs, trimming them in order to fit.

He was most pleased at the fact that only a little adjustment of the leather straps was required to ensure that the steel bracers fit. And that her helmet also fit with very minor adjustment. Her shield, unfortunately, was broken.

He then noticed a slight bulge in the satchel attached to the armor's belt and opened it up to check. What he saw made him quite happy. The old book that detailed the location of the first Wulfson's tomb was inside, apparently being kept as a souvenir by the Captain. However, unless she knew Ta'agra and a separate runic language, she would never have understood what was written within.

Finally, he strapped the Claw's scabbard to the belt and slid the blade home. "Let's get out of here."


	2. Chapter 2

Lejule stepped along the cobblestone path to Whiterun, his newly forged steel armor shining in the sunlight. It had taken days alongside Riverwood's smith, Alvor (who happened to be Hadvar's uncle), to properly fit the set of steel armor to the Khajiit's dimensions. Apparently, suthay-raht like him were few and far between, even among the trading caravans. Inside the satchel, along with his book, was a few septims (all that remained after buying/finding the materials to make his armor), a couple of health potions and some food.

Also in the satchel was something odd he had found while doing a job to raise enough coin to afford the armor. It was a heavy, pentagonal stone with a crude map of ancient Skyrim on one side while the other was inscribed with an unintelligible set of runes. They weren't in any language the cat-man knew, so he planned to show it to the Jarl's court wizard when he got the chance. Oddly enough, very similar runes had been inscribed on the concave wall near where he had found the stone (one word of which had burned itself into his mind, calling itself "Fus"). They were also inscribed in the book that had been passed down the family line; only old enchantments that had been woven into the fibers of the parchment had kept the old book intact.

He soon passed one of the first major landmarks along the road to the Hold capitol: the Honningbrew Meadery. Lejule made a mental note to visit there sometime and buy a bottle. Honningbrew was, supposedly, becoming a serious competitor for the reigning Black-Briar mead, and he would rather not funnel coin into a business run by an Imperial supporter, as Maven Black-Briar was.

However, all leisurely thoughts were put out of his mind as he heard the sounds of battle ahead. Drawing the ancient Nord bow he had picked up off of the corpse of a Draugr up at Bleak Falls Barrow and later improved at Alvor's smithy, he raced along the road to where the battle was being fought.

Once he got there, he zeroed in on the antagonist, a giant. Realizing that it would be stupid to try to fight it up close, he nocked an equally ancient Nord arrow and quickly loosed it at the giant. As soon as the arrow was in the air, he drew another out of its quiver and aimed. By this time, however, the first arrow had hit its target and the warriors who had already been fighting it had finished it off.

He let the bowstring relax and slid the now-unnecessary arrow back into its quiver before sliding the bow back up his arm. Hurried footsteps alerted him to another person trotting up the path toward him. He looked up and smiled, impressed.

She was a Nord, and, like most Nord women, she sported a toned, muscular body. A dagger was sheathed on her right hip while she held a hunting bow in her right hand with a quiver of iron-headed arrows on her back. What caught his eyes most, however, was her head. Her skin was very pale, save where her hand-print-shaped green war-paint was laid across her face, and the war-paint complemented her fiery red hair rather nicely.

"You handled yourself rather well. Would you want to join the Companions?"

He thought back on the Skyrim lore he had studied and cautiously stated, "Descended from Ysgramor's Five Hundred Companions, correct?"

She nodded. "In spirit, if not by blood. If you feel up to it, speak to Kodlak Whitemane up in Jorvaskr. He's able to read a man's soul and tell his worth by looking at his eyes."

The Khajiit nodded in return and replied, "After I deliver the message I have for the Jarl, I shall see about joining the Companions. I would be honored to fight by your side." He bowed his head and continued on. At the gate, a guard told him that the city was closed because of the dragons, but a few quick words of his message and a mention of Gerda, Ralof's sister and owner of the Riverwood Mill, got the oaf to change his tune.

Once inside, he sprinted for the keep known as Dragonsreach, pausing only long enough to listen to a Nord wearing light Imperial Legion armor berating an Imperial woman for being unable to produce more weapons for the Legion than was humanly possible. Immediately, Lejule put that man on his mental "do not like" list, and then he continued through the market and up to the keep.

The guard at the doors barely even acknowledged the cat's presence as the latter opened one of the doors quietly and quickly slipped inside. However, here he was readily noticed by a Dunmer in leather armor, who drew her sword and intercepted him near the central fire pit. However, she ushered him toward the throne once he mentioned his presence in Helgen.

Jarl Balgruuf was a weathered man, but just the right amount. And he bore himself with the air of a warrior, like his Housecarl, who stepped ahead of the Khajiit and whispered something in the Nord's ear. Lejule couldn't help but smile in respect for the man; he liked him already. "Irileth tells me that you were at Helgen. You saw this dragon with your own eyes?"

Wanting, somewhat foolishly maybe, to show his dislike of the Empire, the cat-man replied. "Yes. I had a very good view while the Imperials were trying to cut my head off."

To his surprise, the Jarl actually chuckled. "Well, whatever your crime was, consider yourself pardoned."

At this point, Irileth, the Housecarl, put in her two septims. "My lord, we should dispatch troops to Riverwood at once. It is in the most immediate danger."

However, it was at this point that the steward proved his complete inexperience with military matters, instead focusing on the political aspects of the decision. "Absolutely not. The Jarl of Falkreath will view it as a provocation. He'll think we'll join Ulfric's side and attack him!"

He was about to say more when Balgruuf cut him off. "Enough! I'll not sit idly by while a dragon burns my hold and slaughters my people. Irileth, send a detachment of soldiers to Riverwood, immediately."

As she saluted and went off to carry out the order, the steward decided to cut his losses. "If you'll excuse me, I have other matters to attend to."

"That would be best, Proventius," the Jarl replied, glowering at the Imperial. He then turned his gaze back to Lejule. "As for you, you sought me out on your own initiative. For that, I offer you this, from my armory." He handed the Khajiit warrior a horned steel helm, which the latter graciously accepted. "You know," he began again, "There is another matter I could use some help with. Something suited to your particular talents, perhaps? Come. Let us talk to Farengar, my court mage. He has been looking into this matter of dragons and…rumors of dragons."

The Jarl led the cat over to a rather impressively large side room with various magical accoutrements, including an alchemy station and an enchanting table, strewn about. Inside, a Nord in a blue-black robe was pacing between various locations, muttering to himself.

"Farengar, I have found someone to help you with your little dragon project. Fill him in on the details." Then Balgruuf left.

"So the Jarl thinks you can be of use to me?" the mage asked distractedly. "Oh, yes, he must mean my research into the return of the dragons. I need someone to fetch something for me. Well, when I say 'fetch,' I really mean delve into an ancient ruin in search of an artifact that may or may not actually be there."

_Great._ Normally, Lejule had little trouble with allied magic-users, but he felt that something was a little off with Farengar, and he wanted to spend as little time as possible in the man's presence. "All right. Where am I going, and what am I fetching?"

"Straight to the point, eh? No need for the tedious 'hows' and 'whys.' I like that. Leave that kind of thing for your betters, right?" The felinoid suppressed a growl in his throat. "But, anyway. I need you to go into Bleak Falls Barrow and find the Dragonstone, an ancient stone tablet that shows a map of ancient dragon burial sites." That caught the Khajiit's attention, as he had already searched through the ruin during the job where he had found the stone. It seemed that he had already completed this task. "I need you to go into the ruin, find the tablet, no doubt interred in the main chamber, and return it to me. Simplicity itself."

Lejule reached into his satchel and pulled out the stone, asking, "You mean this stone?" before dropping it on the wizard's desk.

"That's it! The Dragonstone of Bleak Falls Barrow! You're certainly cut from a different cloth from the usual brutes the Jarl foists on me."

While the cat was pondering whether to take that statement as a slight or a compliment, Irileth came running in. "Farengar! Come quickly. A dragon's been sighted nearby." She turned toward the Khajiit. "You should come, too."

As they followed the Dunmer, the court mage started babbling excitedly. "A dragon? How exciting. Where was it? How big was it? Which way was it going?"

"If I were you, I'd take this a bit more seriously." She actually sounded worried. "If a dragon does attack Whiterun, I'm not sure if we'd be able to stop it." Lejule nodded to himself, as he had seen what little effectiveness the Imperial Legion had had against the dragon in Helgen. When they arrived at the upper tier of Dragonsreach, outside of the Jarl's quarters, the Housecarl ordered a guard to, "Tell him everything. Exactly as you told me."

"Uh, yes. We saw it coming from the South. And it was fast. Faster than anything I've ever seen."

"Is it attacking the Watchtower?"

"No, my lord. It was circling overhead when I last saw it. I've never run so fast in my life. I was sure it would come for me."

"Well then. Go to the barracks and get some food and rest. You've earned it. Irileth, I need you to gather some guardsmen and head to the tower."

"I've already ordered some of my best men to muster by the west gate."

"Very good." He then turned to the Khajiit and continued, "There is no time to stand on ceremony. You've done us a great service in getting the Dragonstone for Farengar, but I need your help again. You should go with them. You were at Helgen, so you have the most experience with dragons."

"I should very much like to come, too. I would very much like to see this dragon," Farengar piped up.

"No. I cannot risk the both of you. I need you to stay here and research methods to better defend the city from dragon attacks. And Irileth? This isn't a 'death or glory' mission. I need to know what we're dealing with."

"Don't worry, my lord. I am the very soul of caution," the Housecarl replied with a fully respectful salute before turning to leave. With half-a-seconds' hesitation due to uncertainty, Lejule followed. She led the way through the Cloud and Wind districts until they arrived at the gate, where a half-dozen or so guards were gathered.

Citizens of the city were racing around in a general panic; their shouts prevented the Khajiit from hearing most of what Irileth said to the guardsmen, but he heard the end of it. "Think about it. The first dragon sighted since the end of the last age. And the honor of killing it belongs to us. So, what say you? Shall we go kill us a dragon?" The Nords all gave battle-cries in agreement, and Lejule joined in with a roar that would do a senche-tiger proud. "Then let's go!" Out on the plains, in sight of the Watchtower, the Dunmer motioned for the group to get down behind a pair of rocky outcrops. Peeking up over one of the boulders, she stated, "There's no sign of the dragon, but it sure looks like he's been here." She turned toward the guards and added, "I know it looks bad."

Lejule took his own peek and huffed. "He was worse at Helgen."

"But we need to find out what we're dealing with. And if that dragon's still skulking around. Spread out! Search for survivors."

The Khajiit drew the Claw and made a beeline for the Tower, leaping over or vaulting any small obstacles. As he climbed onto the cracked ramp that led to the front door, a Nord in the yellow-robed armor of the Whiterun Guard appeared in the archway and warned, "No! Stay back. It's still out here; Hroki and Tor just got grabbed when they tried to make a run for it." Its roar pealed faintly across the plains. "Kynareth save us. Here it comes again!" he whimpered before dashing to hide curled up under a table.

"Here he comes! Get to cover, and make every arrow count!" Irileth ordered.

Simply nodding, Lejule dashed up the steps to the top of the tower to gain a better vantage point, slinging his shield over his back, sheathing his sword, and drawing his bow on the run. When he got up there, he nearly got blasted with a direct hit from the dragon's fire. Fortunately, he was able to duck back before being too scorched.

Quickly recovering, and swigging down a minor healing potion, he got back out into the open and nocked an arrow on the ancient bow's string. Leaping onto the lip of the battlements, he immediately drew a bead on the massive beast, some unknown sense within him telling him exactly what direction to aim. In quick succession, he had poured several arrows into the dragon's shoulders, forcing it to the ground as its wings began to refuse to function.

Wanting to take as much advantage of the dragon's disadvantage as possible, the Wulfson slung his bow, drew his sword, and leaped down from the hole in the wall of the second floor of the Watchtower. Rolling with his landing, he looked back at the dragon just in time to see it toss away a guardsman whose torso had been crushed in its jaws. He hesitated as he realized that this dragon was not the same one that was at Helgen; its scales were too light in color.

It then looked toward the Khajiit and actually spoke. "Meyz, ahrk grind hin dinok, Kaz."

With those words, none of which any of the warriors understood, it drew in a breath, which Lejule now knew to mean that it was preparing to breath fire. When the torrent of flame came, the cat was already on the move. He stepped onto a boulder, leaped from there to a ruined section of one of the bridges, one foot landing on a brick that was sticking out of place. He kicked off of there and flipped his sword down. "By the Claw of Akatosh, you die!" he roared as he landed on the dragon's head and plunged the ebony blade into its skull.

"Dovahkiin! No!" it whimpered as it slumped to the ground, dead.

Lejule likewise slumped down to one knee, eyes closed, exhausted by the bout as the adrenaline wore off. However, an odd feeling overcame him as he felt an…energy flow through the longsword and into him. When he opened his eyes, he saw that the dragon's hide appeared to be burning away, including the patch he was standing on. He stood quickly, fearful that his own hide would be scorched off; then he realized that the flames were cool and didn't burn him. Suddenly, when the last of the energy had filtered into his body, the Khajiit knew the dragon's name (Mirmulnir), what it meant ("Allegiance, Strong, Hunt"), what it had said to him, and what the word "Fus" meant: Force. The first part of a legendary, ancient Nord Shout called Unrelenting Force, designed to stagger opponents and, when strong enough, throw them about like dolls a child has grown tired of.

But, if he understood it without effort…then could he use it? He removed his blade, sheathed it, and hopped to the ground and prepared himself to test it. He faced the dragon's skeleton and reached deep into his soul for the strength to empower the Shout. What he found shocked him even more than the dragon at Helgen. At the core of his soul was a mighty golden dragon, similar in appearance to the family stories about the Avatar of Akatosh that Martin had become to bring about the end of the Oblivion Crisis. It bowed its head to him and its voice was the one that emitted the Shout from between his jaws.

"FUS!" A blue wave of energy flew across the landscape and shoved the dead dragon's skull about a foot further away. _Whoa_.

"I don't believe it. You're…" one of the guards began.

"Dragonborn. I know. I have studied many Nord legends."

The surviving guardsmen conversed amongst themselves for nearly a minute about the implications of the new Dragonborn before one of them turned to Irileth and asked for her input. She harrumphed and replied, "Some of you would do better keeping quiet and not flapping your gums about matters you don't understand. Here's a dead dragon. That's something I definitely understand. Now we know we can kill them. But I don't need some mythical 'Dragonborn.' Someone who can put down a dragon is good enough for me."

"You wouldn't understand, Housecarl. You ain't a Nord."

The Dunmer bristled at the slight. "I've been all across Tamriel and seen plenty of things just as outlandish as this. I'd advise you to trust in the strength of your sword-arm than in legends." She then turned to Lejule and changed the subject. "You should get back to Whiterun immediately. Jarl Balgruuf will want to be made aware of what has occurred here."

"Yes ma'am," the Khajiit replied as he turned back to the mighty dragon's corpse. Despite his distrust of the court mage, he figured that the man would want some samples of the dragon to study, so he pulled away some of the loosest, smallest bones and shaved off the surviving scales and shoved the lot into the satchel of his armor.

As he ran back, a peal of thunder not unlike the blast the dragon of Helgen had made rippled across the plain. Unlike the older blast, the thunderclap was followed by a single word: "Dovahkiin!"

The Dragonborn made a mental note to look up that word when he got back. Inside the Dragonsreach keep, the Jarl was speaking with his steward and another man. "You heard the summons. What else could it mean? The Greybeards…" Balgruuf stated in awe.

That was when the other man noticed Lejule. "We were just talking about you. My brother needs a word with you."

"Your-?" Looking closer, the cat noticed that he had a certain similarity in looks to the Jarl. "Oh."

Balgruuf cleared his throat and asked, "So, what happened at the Watchtower? Was the dragon there?"

"The watchtower was destroyed, but we killed the dragon." He decided to hold back the facts that there were more dragons on the loose and that he was the Dragonborn.

"I knew I could count on Irileth." Somehow, he noticed the Khajiit's slightest hesitation. "But, there must be more to it than that."

_Might as well_. "Turns out I may be an incarnation of the 'Dragonborn.'"

"'Dragonborn?' What do you know about the Dragonborn?"

"I know that he or she is a great warrior who can acquire power from any dragon they slay. I also know that Martin Septim was the last known bearer of the dragon blood. And, I, myself, absorbed some kind of power from the dragon out there."

"So, it's true. The Greybeards really were summoning you."

"The Greybeards?"

"Masters of the Way of the Voice. They live in seclusion high on the slopes of the Throat of the World."

"What would the Greybeards want with me?"

"The Dragonborn is said to be uniquely gifted in the Voice – the ability–"

"With respect, I know what the Voice is."

"Then, if you really are Dragonborn, they can teach you how to better use your gift."

"Didn't you hear the thundering sound as you returned to Whiterun?" the Jarl's brother asked. When Lejule nodded, the Nord continued, "That was the Voice of the Greybeards, summoning you to High Hrothgar. This hasn't happened in...centuries at least. Not since Tiber Septim himself was summoned when he was still Talos of Atmora."

"Yes, I remember. Talos was one of the first Dragonborn, and the first of the Septim bloodline."

At this point, Proventius butted in. "Hrongar, calm yourself. What does any of this Nord nonsense have to do with our friend here? Capable as he may be, I see no sign of him being this, what, 'Dragonborn?'"

Both the Khajiit and the Nord bristled at the Imperial's ignorance. "'Nord nonsense?'" they both said at the same time. Hrongar continued his reprimand, "Why you puffed-up ignorant–" He smoothed himself and continued, "These are our sacred traditions going back to the founding of the First Empire."

"Hrongar, don't be so hard on Avenicci," Balgruuf cautioned.

"I meant no disrespect, of course." _Yeah, right_. "It's just that, what would these Greybeards want with him?"

"That's the Greybeards' business, not ours. Whatever happened when you killed that dragon, it revealed something in you, and the Greybeards heard it. If they think you are Dragonborn, who are we to argue. You'd better get up to High Hrothgar immediately. There's no refusing the summons of the Greybeards. It's a tremendous honor." The Jarl said.

"I am sure it is."

"I envy you, you know. To climb the seven-thousand steps again..." Balgruuf began almost dreamily. "I made the pilgrimage once, did you know that? High Hrothgar was a very peaceful place. Very... disconnected from the troubles of this world. I wonder that the Greybeards even notice what's going on down here. They haven't seemed to care before." The Jarl sighed deeply. "No matter. Go to High Hrothgar. Learn what the Greybeards can teach you."

Lejule bowed his head and replied, "I thank the Lord for the information and for his advice, but I have another, greater honor I must attend to, first; a promise I made. 'An Oath, once made, must be kept.' Is that not the Nord way?"

The regional ruler smiled and then laughed. "Are you sure that you're not a Nord under that fur, Khajiit? Anyway, you've done me and my city a great service, Dragonborn. By my right as Jarl, I name you Lejule, Thane of Whiterun. It's the greatest honor that's within my power to grant. I assign you Lydia as a personal Housecarl, and this weapon from my armory to serve as your badge of office." He nodded to his steward, who handed the Khajiit an enchanted steel battle-axe. "I'll also notify my guards of your new title. Wouldn't want them to think you are part of the common rabble, now would we? We are honored to have you as Thane of our city, Dragonborn. As Thane, you are entitled to own property in Whiterun. Speak to Proventius when you wish to purchase a home."

"Thank you, my Lord." With that, he turned and left, knowing that he was not in possession of anywhere near enough gold to purchase a house. He acknowledged Lydia, who had just walked in from the guard barracks, but let her know that he did not require her services at the present time, before stepping through the doorway of Dragonsreach and beginning to make his way to Jorvaskr.


	3. Chapter 3

The mead hall of Jorrvaskr bore an appearance that evoked a capsized ship set atop four stone walls. Lejule paused outside to study the structure; he took particular interest in the shields arranged on the front wall and the coats-of-arms emblazoned there-on. "Alright, Lejule, be on your best honor. Many of Tamriel's greatest warriors have come from the ranks of the Companions. Your ancestors are watching. Make them proud." With that pep talk, he marched up to the doors and stepped inside.

Once there, he was met by a grey-haired (Well, what hair was left was grey.), one-eyed Nord warrior wearing a style of armor the Khajiit had never seen before. It was fashioned out of tan-colored steel plates with a stylized wolf head set at the collar, and stylized wolf skulls lined the outer sides of the gauntlets. The man opened his mouth to speak, but then he was distracted by a commotion behind him; a female Nord and a male Dunmer, who had been arguing verbally when the Wulfson entered, had now come to blows and other members of the Companions were forming a circle and cheering the two brawlers on.

Lejule shook his head and proceeded to walk up to the one person who had not joined the circle, Aela. "Ah, Vilkas owes me some gold. I assured him that you would show up within the week. He bet that you wouldn't work up the courage for a month." She took a draught from her mug of mead. "Still, you did take longer to get here than I thought. What took you so long?"

"That message to the Jarl yielded…more complicated consequences than I thought. But, I'm here now. Could you direct me to Kodlak so that I may attempt to join?"

She chuckled. "You're quite formal. I bet that you'll lose that after a few weeks here. Anyway, Kodlak is by his quarters." The Huntress jerked her thumb toward the railing behind her. "Head down those stairs, through the doors, immediately turn right, and he should be all the way at the end of that corridor."

"Thank you, my lady," the cat stated with a bowed head as he began to approach the indicated stairway. Behind him, Aela shook her head and returned to her mead.

As he approached the end of the barracks corridor, Lejule overheard two men speaking. As the conversation was already in progress, he could not tell what the subject was. "But I still feel the call of the Blood," the younger man stated.

"We all do. That is our burden to bear," the elder replied.

"Well, you can count on my brother and me, but I do not think the others will go along as easily."

At that moment, the Khajiit politely cleared his throat. "Kodlak Whitemane?"

"A stranger comes to our hall. What business brings you here?"

"I wish to join the Companions."

"Come here. Let me take a look at you." Once the felinoid stepped closer, the old man continued, "Yes. I see a certain spark. You have potential."

"Master, you're not seriously considering him? I've never even heard of this stranger." the younger objected.

"I'm nobody's 'master' Vilkas. And, last I saw, there were some empty beds in Jorrvaskr for those with a fire in their hearts. Sometimes, the famous come to us. Others come to us to seek fame. What matters is a warrior's heart," Kodlak chided.

"And their arm," Vilkas added, half under his breath.

"Aye, there is that." The Whitemane turned to the Khajiit and asked, "How well do you think you'd do in battle, boy?"

"I can handle myself well enough," Lejule replied, not wanting to appear haughty or weak.

"We shall see. This is Vilkas. He'll test your mettle. Follow him to the training courtyard."

Vilkas turned a glare toward Kodlak, but he daren't question the order. He silently got up and began walking, the forward tilt of his shoulders showing his buried fury. The cat followed at a cautious distance, a hand resting on the pommel of the Claw of Akatosh.

They brushed past the warriors who were dispersing from the now-finished brawl and exited the back door. Once they were outside, Vilkas picked up a steel shield and came to a stop in front of one of the target dummies. "Draw your sword and take a few swings at me. Don't worry; I can take it." He then drew his own sword; it was a steel blade, but of higher quality steel than most.

"I shall allow you to take the first swing." Lejule had not even drawn his blade.

The Nord gave the Khajiit a rueful smile and swung his blade in a downward diagonal arc. To his surprise, the cat's ebony longsword flashed out of its scabbard and knocked the steel sword to the side. At the same time, the Wulfson sidestepped away from the other warrior's sword before bringing his own steel shield around to graze the side of Vilkas's head. That half-strike infuriated the Companion, who tried to bring his sword around for a second swing. Instead, Lejule's shield smashed into the wolf gauntlet, shaking the steel blade from his grasp, and then the shield came up into the Nord's chin, knocking him silly and throwing him onto his arse.

"Alright. I'll admit it. You have some skill. But you're still a whelp to us. Here, take my sword up to Eorlund at the forge for sharpening. And be careful with it; that blade's probably worth more than you are," Vilkas said before he handed the blade to Lejule and stormed off.

"Sore loser," the Khajiit muttered with a half-smile before he walked up the path to the famous Skyforge. Upon seeing the old Nord working the forge, he tentatively asked, "Eorlund, I presume?"

"I am Eorlund Gray-Mane."

"Vilkas sent me to get his sword sharpened."

"Ah, so you must be the newblood," Eorlund stated as he accepted the blade.

"Does Vilkas send many newbloods up here?"

"Sometimes, but, remember, nobody rules anybody in the Companions."

That threw Lejule for a loop. "But, surely someone must lead them?"

The old man shrugged. "I don't know how they did it, but they have. No leaders since Ysgramor." He walked over to the Skyforge's grindstone where he set to sharpening Vilkas's blade. Once he finished, he handed the sword back to the Khajiit and continued, "There you are. Back to the way it was when I forged it. Also, I have a favor to ask."

"Name it."

He picked up a shield off of the stone/brick slab next to the main body of the forge and handed it to Lejule. "I've been meaning to get this to Aela, but my wife is in mourning for our son and I've been spending most of my time consoling her."

"I shall pray for your son's spirit, Gray-Mane. In the meantime, I'll get these to Vilkas and Aela."

"Thank you. You make an old man proud."

"I know." As he walked away, Lejule thought back to his own family's mourning time.

His older brother had joined the Imperial Legion; snuck out of Elsewyr and made his way north to the Imperial City just to do so. During the Great War, he had been an advance scout against the Aldmeri Dominion's preliminary invasion of Cyrodiil. His unit had been slaughtered, but it had taken many months for news of the battle to even reach Rimmen, much less his family's loss. His mother had fallen ill with her grief, and passed away two months after. That had been nearly ten years ago. That had started Lejule's own descent in loyalty to the Empire; that had culminated in the signing of the White-Gold Concordat. As his father had put it, "The Empire that our family faithfully supported for centuries would have fought until its destruction or that of its enemies."

He re-entered the mead hall and spotted Vilkas immediately, sulking in a corner. "Here is your blade. You fought well."

"Hmph."

The Khajiit stood and cocked his head to the side. "Alright, I understand that you dislike being beaten in combat, I do. I dislike being second-best, myself. However, only by coming in second place every now and then do we improve."

"Ha! Wisdom like that is usually only possessed by the Harbingers. You'll make a good fit…if you live long enough." The Nord stood and patted the cat's shoulder.

As Vilkas began to walk off, Lejule turned and asked, "By the way, do you know where Aela is?"

"In her quarters. Second alcove on the left, left-side bedroom."

"Thanks." The felinoid stepped down into the bedding area of Jorrvaskr and searched for the Huntress. As Vilkas had said, she was in her quarters, chatting with the one-eyed warrior from earlier. Lejule cleared his throat and stated, "Aela, I have your shield."

"Ah, thank you. I've been waiting for this. Seems that Kodlak accepted you, after all."

One-Eye nodded. "I saw him in the courtyard, training with Vilkas."

"Yes, Skjor tells me you gave him quite the thrashing. Tell me, could you handle Vilkas in a real fight?"

Not wanting to give a definitive answer, the Khajiit replied, "I don't like to boast."

"Ah. A man of action. I like that. Here, let's have Farkas show you where you'll be sleeping."

"Farkas!" Skjor yelled.

A moment later, a man who looked almost exactly like Vilkas, with the exception of the hair style, walked to the doorway. "You called me?"

"Of course, ice-brain," Aela chided playfully.

"Show this newblood where the other whelps sleep."

"Newblood? Oh, I remember you. Come on." He beckoned and began walking, Lejule following. "Skjor and Aela tease me, but they're good people. It's nice to see a new face around here, can get boring at times seeing the same people. I hope we get to keep you. This can be a rough life." When they reached the first, largest alcove/room, Farkas finished, "Here's where you'll be sleeping. Just pick a bed and fall in it when you're tired. If you're looking for work, talk with me, my brother, Aela, or Skjor."

"Thank you, Farkas." The cat immediately followed the simple Nord's advice: he walked over to the nearest empty bed, laid his satchel by one of its feet, and collapsed on the hay, exhausted, not even bothering to remove his armor; he hadn't slept since he'd set out from Riverwood.

The sleep he received was a restless one, for the ancient wolf in his blood began to stir. He received only one dream, more of a vision. Lejule was standing on a hillside, but it was not on Nirn, as the lighting was wrong. He looked behind himself and saw a pack of werewolves looking up to him as Alpha. In front of him was a small group of massive dragons, including the black one from Helgen. "Destroy them," the black ordered.

"For the sons and daughters of Tamriel!" the Khajiit found himself roaring as he drew the Claw of Akatosh. However, as he charged forward, he realized that his body was that of a werewolf. The dream, incredibly short, ended as the two small armies met.

The felinoid bolted back to consciousness and sat upright in his bed. "Damn," he muttered to himself. Then he allowed himself a smirk. "However, that is an interesting possibility. I'll see if it's true soon enough."

Days later, after completing a complicated prisoner rescue from the Falmer hive known as Shimmermist Cavern, Vilkas, who had given Lejule the job and now gave him his cut of the payout, said that Skjor had been looking for the cat. The one-eyed Nord was sitting on one of the outdoor chairs. "You were looking for me, Skjor?"

"Yes. I think time has come for you to prove yourself." He stood up, cleared his throat, and continued, "Last week, a scholar came to us and told us where we could find a fragment of Wuuthrad."

"Ysgramor's axe?" the Khajiit gasped.

"The very same. Supposedly, it's in Dustman's Cairn. And guess what I want you to do?"

Lejule placed his fist over his heart and pledged, "It would be my honor to retrieve this valuable artifact."

"There's a fine line between respect and boot-licking. This will be your Trial. Farkas will be your Shield-Sibling on this venture. Try not to get him killed."

"Depend on it," the cat replied as he stepped back inside to find the man who would fight by his side for this mission. Once he found the big Nord, he stated, "Are you ready?"

"When you are."

"I'll meet you at Dustman's Cairn, then."

The journey to the old tomb was surprisingly uneventful, aside from sneaking past a giant camp. Surprisingly, Lejule was the first to arrive, so he settled against the arched entryway that led into the tomb to wait for Farkas. When the long-haired warrior finally arrived, the Khajiit asked, "What took you?"

"Pair of sabre cats," the Nord replied nonchalantly. "You ready?"

"Let's go," the felinoid returned as he drew his family blade.

Upon entering the tomb, Lejule dropped into a stealthy crouch, as had become his standard procedure for exploration. The entrance corridor led down to a room with several open standing crypts surrounding an altar or table upon which lay a pickaxe and against it a shovel. Farkas muttered, "Looks like someone's been digging. And recently. Tread lightly."

"Don't have to tell me twice."

However, before they moved on, the Khajiit could not resist looking around for some loot. That came in the form of some gold and a soul gem inside a locked chest and a book that gave some pointers on how to use the larger weapons that required two hands to use effectively. Over the next few corridors, the pair of warriors ran into a quartet of Draugr that were no challenge at all. The first fell to a single shot from the Falmer bow Lejule had picked up in Shimmermist, while the Claw of Akatosh and Farkas's greatsword tore the other three to ribbons almost before they knew what was going on.

The next chamber, a massive one, appeared to be a dead end. There was only one exit, and it was blocked with a portcullis. Looking around, the felinoid spotted an alcove with a lever inside it. "Damn," he quietly swore, knowing that there would be some sort of trap associated with that tempting lever. Still, it appeared to be the only way they would be able to proceed, and there were a couple of healing potions stacked on the shelving unit next to the lever. Gritting his teeth, the cat walked into the alcove, grabbed the potions, and pulled the lever before leaping back to avoid as much of the trap as he could. To his surprise, his back connected with another portcullis as it dropped behind him, sealing him into the alcove. "Lovely," he muttered as he turned around, just in time to see Farkas walk up to the gate.

"Now look what you've gotten yourself into." The Khajiit backed his ears in shame. "Don't worry, I'll find the release lever."

On the tail-end of those words, a group of bandits, maybe seven or eight of them, streamed in through the previously blocked corridor. "Farkas! Look out!"

"What the–?" Farkas started as he turned and drew his blade.

"It's time to die, dog!" the leader of the bandits barked. However, it appeared as though these bandits were a little better equipped than the usual sort; they wielded silver blades, the first Lejule had seen since leaving Cyrodiil, where they were still somewhat popular.

"We knew you'd come here," another said menacingly.

The cat's breath caught in his throat. It had all been a trap laid down by these bandits to kill some members of the Companions, and he and Farkas were the unlucky Companions.

"Your mistake, Companion," the second one continued

"Which one is that?" a third bandit asked.

"Doesn't matter. He wears that armor, he dies!" the first chided. Farkas began backing up toward the portcullis, and the bastard continued, "Killing you will make for an excellent story."

"Too bad none of you will be alive to tell it," Farkas countered. He then dropped his sword and doubled over. Thick black fur grew wherever his skin showed, and his armor appeared to evaporate. His face grew out into a massive lupine muzzle, while a black-furred tail grew out above his rear end. His feet cracked in half and pushed up into a set of digitigrade legs, while long claws grew out from where his nails used to be. When the transformation was complete, the werewolf roared and lay into the bandits, slaying the lot of them before they could get a single blow in.

When the carnage ended, Farkas ran off to the area the bandits had come from. With a second of private thought, Lejule muttered, "I **knew** it."

Then the portcullis opened and the Nord Companion walked back, his armor back in place. "I hope I didn't scare you," he began, but he trailed off when he noticed the Khajiit's smirk. "What?"

"By Talos, I knew it! Several of the Companions are werewolves."

"How–?"

"Do you know why my family name is 'Wulfson?'"

"No."

"Seventy-four generations ago, my ancestor was turned into a werewolf, and we carry the blood. Not enough for us to transform, but it is enough to sense when another werewolf is nearby."

"Wow."

The cat then backed his ears sheepishly and asked, "Could you…could you turn me into a full-blood werewolf?"

"Oh, no. Only the members of the Circle have the beastblood. Prove your honor to be a Companion. 'Eyes on the prey, not the horizon.' We should keep moving. Still the Draugr to worry about."

Wordlessly, Lejule nodded and they moved on, after stripping the corpses of the bandits.

After slaying two more of the bandits, Lejule asked, "By the way, who are these ruffians?"

"The Silver Hand, bad people who don't like werewolves. So, they don't like us, either."

In the next corridor, the felinoid recognized the form of a Draugr pretending to still be dead and quickly dispatched it with a single stab of the Claw. Both Silver Hand and Draugr fell to their blades in relative silence until they came to a chamber where one of the bandits had disturbed one of the undead, and the two groups were battling fiercely. Once the Draugr were slain, the two Companions moved in to finish off the few remaining Silver Hand. However, they were noticed, and one of their opponents shouted, "It's the cat! Kill him!"

As one, the other members of the Hand began to focus their attacks on the Khajiit. He was forced to use both his shield and his sword to block the incoming blows, leaving no time to go on the offense. Fortunately, Farkas lay into the remaining archer, preventing her from slamming arrows into the cat's side. Then, after a few seconds, the normally icy felinoid felt a blinding rage build within him…and an accompanying boost in strength. His shield smashed the opponent on his left aside and to the ground, while his Thu'um was unleashed on the warrior in front of him, staggering the enemy, and the Claw carved out the belly of the third warrior crowding Lejule.

Quick as a wink, the ebony longsword had been stabbed through the throat of the warrior who had been shouted at, and it was already coming at the last living Silver Hand, who was picking their butt up off the ground. Before the poor sod could react, the tip of the sword was buried in his lung; a short second later, time enough for his maneuver, the Khajiit pulled the blade out, spun, and slashed the bandit across the chest, throwing the corpse to the ground.

A grunt of pain from Farkas caught his attention. The big Nord was stumbling back with an arrow embedded just below the chest plating of his wolf armor, and the archer was readying her sword to take the Companion's head off. Before she could, a small stream of flame washed across her chest, eliciting a shriek of pain and her dropping her sword. She glanced at her chest, where her armor was burning, and looked back up to receive her last sight: Lejule's steel shield being swung into her face. On contact, the strength behind the blow, aided by the Khajiit having leapt to bring the shield down harder, caved in her skull.

As her body crumpled to the ground, the cat asked, "Farkas, can you still fight?"

The Companion pulled out the arrow and stated, "Sure. Give me a few minutes."

"Here. Let me help," the felinoid ordered as he sheathed the Claw, knelt, and called upon his reservoir of magicka. "This might sting for a second," he added as he pressed the golden light of a healing spell against the arrow wound.

The werewolf hissed as the magical energies knitted the wound shut. However, after a few seconds, he said, "Thanks. That…actually feels pretty good." As the Khajiit tended to the Nord's few other wounds, Farkas added, "I never thought I'd be on the same side as a mage."

"I'm not a mage. I just know enough magic to keep me and my allies alive."

"Ah."

After tending to both of their wounds, Lejule searched the Silver Hands' corpses for loot, as usual. However, on the body of the one who had pointed out the cat was a note. "'To all loyal to the Silver Hand: There is a new werewolf in Skyrim. It inhabits the body of a Khajiit by day, and it's almost invincible in its beast from. Destroy it on sight.' 'Inhabits the body of a Khajiit by day?'" Lejule read aloud. He then gasped as he realized who it was talking about, but he kept the revelation to himself.

They continued on to the main burial chamber, and the Khajiit immediately closed his eyes, his shoulders slumped, and he coldly muttered, "This is going to be fun." There were numerous Nordic sarcophagi lining the walls with a single one built in the center of the room. Just behind it, on a table, was a pedestal upon which their target sat. "Even better." However, his mood lifted a little as he noticed what was behind the table. Dominating the back of the room was a wall almost identical to the one that was in Bleak Falls Barrow. "Then again…" he finished with a smirk.

As the pair approached the fragment of Wuuthrad, faint chanting emitted by the wall and one runic word beginning to glow confirmed Lejule's suspicions. He stepped past the fragment, which he could now see was a part of the blade, and laid his claws against the carving that emitted a bluish light. As had happened in the Barrow, energy flowed from the Word up his arm and straight into his skull. The Word identified itself as "Yol," and the soul of a dragon, which called itself "Keinnahkriid" ("War, Fury, Slayer") who had picked a fight with the cat and lost told him that it meant "Fire" and the utterance of it would allow him to breathe fire, as the dragon of Helgen and Mirmulnir had.

However, at the thought of the black monster, Keinnahkriid revealed that the ancient dragon was known as Alduin ("Destroyer, Devour, Master"), known to the Nords as the "World Eater." _Well, then, I shall have to find and destroy him._

_Good luck, Dovahkiin_, Keinnahkriid's soul sneered.

On that note, Lejule recovered the piece of the ancient battleaxe, and took the opportunity to pick up to two dusty, yet functional healing potions and the trio of empty soul gems. To his surprise, none of the sarcophagi burst open. Unfortunately, the only door had shut and was locked. As he tested the lock, the Draugr decided to take that moment to awaken.

Turning and drawing the Claw, the Khajiit bolted for the altar the piece of Wuuthrad had lain on, knowing that whoever controlled the higher ground held the advantage in any fight. Any Draugr he came close enough to was sent to the ground by the ebony sword, although one managed to get close enough to slash at his helmet with a battleaxe. The blow did no more damage than snap off part of one horn, but it did slightly daze the cat and knocked him off balance, to the point that he tripped over the last step before the altar.

His senses returned just in time to roll out of the way of another blow, and his shield blocked a third as he scooted backward. "Farkas! Little help?" he yelled.

"Give me a moment," the Nord grunted back. Lejule looked up to see that the Companion was fending off attacks from a half a dozen undead.

Kicking out with his boots, the felinoid shoved the axe-wielding Draugr back enough to give himself breathing room, and he used it to great effect. Lining up several of the walking dead, he Shouted, "YOL!" Most of the undead immediately went up like funeral pyres from the newly created wall of flame. The only survivor was then further engulfed by a stream of fire channeled through the Claw of Akatosh.

In seconds, it crumbled into an ashen pile. Lejule slowly picked himself up off the ground and took stock of the situation as it stood then. Farkas had managed to drop two of the Draugr, but he was being beaten back by the remaining four. By this time, the dragon inside the Khajiit's soul let him know that it had recovered enough to Shout again.

"Farkas, move!" As soon as the Nord leapt backward, the cat let loose another blast of flame, and three more of the undead crumpled into heaps of ash.

"Well, that was one of the hairiest fights I've been in," Farkas stated as he sheathed his greatsword.

Then the both of them heard the crack of another sarcophagus opening. They turned to see a slightly more powerful Draugr rise out of his eternal rest. "Oh, I do not have time for this," the cat growled as he drew the Claw again. This time however, he threw it at his foe, Shouting at the same time. Unlike the previous uses of the Fire Breath Thu'um, the blast of fire melded with the blade and exploded inside the undead being's chest, consuming it inside a small inferno. Once the flames petered out, only the ebony longsword was left; the rest was ash, including the Draugr's own weapons and armor.

"What did you do?" Farkas asked after a stunned moment.

"I…I have no idea," Lejule replied, still stunned. After a few more seconds, he retrieved his sword and looked around. The entrance doorway was still sealed, but one of the sarcophagi the Draugr had appeared from opened into a carved rock tunnel. "Let's get out of here."

It was late evening by the time the pair arrived back at Jorrvaskr, and Vilkas met the Khajiit at the top of the steps while his brother continued on. "We've been waiting for you."

"Why were you waiting?"

"You'll find out. Follow me."

As they walked, Lejule handed the short-haired twin the piece of Wuuthrad he had recovered.

When they arrived in the courtyard, Vilkas took his place at the end of a semi-circle that included himself, Farkas, Kodlak, Skjor, and Aela, and Kodlak began to speak. "Brothers and Sisters of the Circle, today we welcome a new soul into our mortal fold." He gestured to Lejule. "This man has challenged, has endured, and has shown his valor. Who will speak for him?"

"I stand witness to the courage of the soul before us," Farkas answered.

"Would you raise your shield in his defense?"

The simpler Nord looked toward the Khajiit and replied, "I would stand at his back, so that the world might never overtake us." The cat bowed his head in respect.

"And would you raise your sword in his honor?"

"It stands ready to meet the blood of his foes."

"And would you raise a mug in his name?"

"I would lead the song of triumph as our mead hall reveled in his stories."

"Then the judgment of this Circle is complete. His heart beats with the fury and courage that has united the Companions since the days of the distant green summers. Let it beat with ours, that the mountains may echo and our enemies tremble at the call."

"It shall be so," the other four members of the Circle intoned.

As the Circle dispersed, Kodlak took Lejule aside. "Well, boy, you're one of us now. I hope that you won't disappoint."

After checking that they were truly alone, the Khajiit asked, "So, is it true that the Circle is made of werewolves?"

The old man sighed. "I see you've been allowed to know some secrets before your time. No matter. Yes, it's true."

"Nothing to be ashamed of. My family line has had several wolves in it."

"Some take to the beast-blood more than others."

"What about you?"

"Well, I grow old. My mind turns toward the horizon. To Sovngarde. I worry that Shor would not call an animal to glory, as he would a true Nord warrior. Living as beasts draws our souls closer to the Daedric Lord Hircine. Some may prefer an eternity in his Hunting Grounds, but I crave the fellowship of Sovngarde."

"So, you are looking to cure yourself?"

"Yes, but it's no easy matter. But you needn't trouble yourself with the worries of an old warrior. This day is for rejoicing in your victory. And speak to Eorlund if you want a better weapon than…whatever that is."

Lejule bristled at the comment, but he let it slide. As the Harbinger walked past him, the cat commented, "Do not worry, my friend. You will reach Sovngarde, even if I have to fight Hircine, himself, to get you there."

"Such sentiments make an old man proud," Kodlak chuckled before continuing into the mead hall.

After that, Lejule walked up to the Skyforge and selected a greatsword from the weapons Eorlund had available. With his new weapon fitted, he walked back into Jorrvaskr and went to bed for another night's sleep.


End file.
